SINGLE COMBAT
Even while he hunted, the irritating thought of the creature who
had barked defiantly at him remained with Lupus, and was not
softened by the fact that he missed two kills and failed to find
other game. As a fact, he was in no real need of killing, for he
had fed during the afternoon on the remains of the wallaby he had
dragged up the hill early that morning. This was probably why he
missed two kills; when empty it was rare indeed for him to miss.
And, now, with irritation added to the anger of his recollection of
the Wolfhound, he happened by pure chance upon the warm trail of
Warrigal and the others who had accompanied Finn that night. This
led him to the remains of the mother kangaroo, where he disturbed
some lesser creatures who were supping at their ease. Lupus had no
mind to leave bones with good fresh meat on them, and when he
turned away again on Finn's trail, the unfamiliar scent of which
raised the stiff bristles on his back till he looked like a
hyaena, there was nothing much left for the ants or the
flesh-eating rats and mice of the bush.
Finn's home trail was still fresh, and Lupus followed it easily,
growling to himself as he noted its friendly proximity to the
trails he knew well, of Black-tip and Warrigal and the rest. Lupus
told himself these dingoes needed a lesson, and should have it. He
licked his chops, then, over a recollection of sundry whiffs and
glimpses which had interested him of late in Warrigal, and as his
nose dropped low over her trail on the near side of Finn's, it was
borne in upon Lupus that it would be well for him to have a mate,
and that Warrigal would be a pleasing occupant of that post. The
stranger must be removed, once and for all. Lupus growled low in
his throat. Black-tip and his friends must be cautioned severely.
And then Warrigal should receive high honours; high honours and
great favour. So Lupus pieced the matter out in his mind while
loping heavily along Finn's trail; while among the starveling trees
near the mountain's foot, Black-tip and his friends discussed the
new-comer's prowess; while in the den on the first spur Finn lay
dozing under the admiring eyes of his mate, who did not greatly
care for sleep at night. Regarded as a fighting animal, the thing
which really formed the keynote of Lupus's character was the fact
that he had never met a creature he could not overcome. He had
never tasted defeat, unless, conceivably, in his young days, from
old Tasman. It did not occur to him that any creature could face
him in serious combat and survive.
Before Lupus touched the first loose stone of the trail leading up
the hill to Warrigal's den, the people of the scrub below were all
aware of his passage, and Black-tip, with seven other dingoes who
did not happen to be away hunting, were following up the same
trail, in fan-shaped formation, and at a respectful distance behind
the master of the range. Half-way up the rugged side of the spur,
his unbeaten insolence betrayed Lupus into what the wild folk
considered an unsportsmanlike and stupid mistake. He paused for a
moment, and bellowed forth a threatening and peremptory
announcement of his coming in the form of a hoarse, grating howl of
challenge which could have been heard a mile away. Then he
proceeded on his upward way slowly, because he was fully fed,
carelessly, because he had never known defeat, but with
determination, because he was bent upon ridding the range of one
who had flung defiance at him across the gully, and because, the
more he thought of it, and recalled various small matters of recent
experience and connected with the trail he then followed, the more
ardent became his desire to possess Warrigal for a mate.
Warrigal's friendly warning to Finn was not needed. In the same
instant that Lupus's hoarse cry fell upon his ears he was awake and
alert, and perfectly conscious as to the source of the cry. He knew
that it came from the great wolf-dingo, whose passage he had
challenged in the dawning of that day. He recognized the voice, and
read clearly enough the meaning of the cry. He knew that this was a
more considerable enemy than any he had faced as yet, and there was
time in the moment of his waking for regret to flash through his
mind that the challenge should have come now, while his whole body
was scarred with unhealed wounds, and his left thigh was stiff from
the punishing slash of the kangaroo's mailed foot. In the next
moment he was outside the mouth of the den, his deep, fierce bark
rending the silence of the night. The eight dingoes who followed in
Lupus's trail heard the bark, and glanced one at another in meaning
comment thereon. Never was a leader of men or beasts more cordially
hated than Lupus. There was not a dingo who could call his
leadership into question; even the young and daring members of the
pack who pretended to scoff at the traditional awe in which Tasman
was held, admitted the tyrannical mastership of Lupus as something
ever-present and unavoidable; but that by no manner of means
lessened their cordial hatred of the fierce half-breed, with his
massive neck and shoulders that fangs seemed powerless to hurt, his
jaws which were as swift as they were mighty to rend, and his claws
which were as terrible as those of an old-man kangaroo, and more
deadly in action because he had four sets of them. Black-tip
experienced a generous sensation of sympathy and pity for Finn, and
so did the two friends of his who had fed that night upon good
fresh kangaroo flesh. But they, like all the others, were keen to
see the coming fight, and--to act accordingly. The question of what
was to become of Warrigal had occurred with interest to each one of
them, for she was eminently desirable just then to all her kind.
Fierce, savage, and justly feared though he was physically, Lupus
was mentally a sluggish beast, and not over and above intelligent.
In this he favoured his sire, who was slow-moving, sluggish, and,
withal, as fierce as any weasel, and immensely powerful. When Lupus
caught his first glimpse of the creature he had come to slay, he
had a momentary thrill of uneasiness, but it was no more than
momentary. Finn's towering form stood out clearly in the moonlight,
as he stood, with tail curved upward and hackles erect, on the
stone ledge outside the den. Lupus was scaling an extremely steep
section of the trail at the moment, and, seen against the sky-line,
Finn seemed monstrous. But, in justice, one should say that Lupus
knew nothing of fear. It was only that for a moment, as he dragged
his full-fed weight upward over the stones, the thought passed
through his dull mind that this was surely a strange sort of dingo
and extraordinarily tall. Finn was, as a matter of fact, ten inches
taller than any other dingo on that range except Lupus, and four
inches taller than he. Lupus was half as heavy again as any other
dingo on the range, but, though he knew it not, Finn was twenty
pounds heavier than he. But Lupus always had killed every animal
that he had met in combat, and it did not for an instant occur to
him that he might fail to kill this new-comer. And then there was
Warrigal--he got her scent now as she emerged, crouching, from the
den--he wanted Warrigal for his mate and he would have her.
[Illustration: Finn's towering form stood out clearly in the
moonlight.]
Finn was standing in the middle of the flat ledge outside the den,
and he neither advanced or retreated a single step as Lupus drew
nearer. He simply bayed, at intervals, like a minute-gun, and
scratched a little at the sandy rock beneath him with his right
fore-foot. Once, Warrigal, snarling savagely, ranged up alongside
him, but he sent her back to the mouth of the den with a peremptory
growl which admitted of no argument. "This is my affair," his growl
said. "Stay you back there in the doorway." And Warrigal, like the
good spouse she was, retreated to the mouth of the den. Just then
Lupus landed on the rock-ledge with a hectoring snarl which
betrayed extravagance in a commodity he could ill afford to
waste--breath. He plunged forward upon Finn with the clumsiness of
a buffalo, and, for his instruction, received a slashing bite
across one shoulder and a chest thrust which sent him rolling
backwards off the ledge to the trail below, on his back.
A dingo in Finn's place would have leaped upon him then, and, it
may be, the fight would have ended suddenly; for even so
redoubtable a foe as Lupus is of no very great account if he can be
seized when on his back, with all four feet in the air. Black-tip
and his companions in the rear drew in their breath sharply. They
had never before seen Lupus on his back, and if he had stayed there
another second he would have had their fangs to reckon with. But
his reception by the stranger taught Lupus something, and the enemy
that faced Finn for the second assault was a far more deadly one
than the Lupus of a few moments earlier. Finn had scorned to pursue
his fallen foe, but it would have been better for him if he had had
less pride. The fan-shaped line of watching dingoes closed in a
little as Lupus remounted the rocky ledge, with a blood-curdling
snarl and an awe-inspiring exposure of his gleaming fangs. In
another instant the two were at grips, and Finn realized that he
was engaged in a fight for life, and a far more serious combat than
any he had known before. The mere weight of impact with the
wolf-dingo was sufficient to tell Finn this, and for the
infinitesimal fraction of an instant he felt a sense of fatality and
doom when his opponent's tremendously powerful jaws closed over the
upper part of his right fore-leg.
In the next instant Finn had torn one of Lupus's ears in half, and
the terrible grip on his leg was relaxed. The Wolfhound sprang
completely over the wolf-dingo, and took a slashing bite at the
creature's haunches as he descended. Then they rose one at the
other, like bears standing erect, and meeting jaw to jaw in
mid-air, with a flashing and clashing of fangs which sent a thrill
of excitement along the line of watchful dingoes, who realized now
that they were looking on at the greatest spectacle of their lives.
Lupus missed his grip that time, but so did Finn, being unable to
withstand the violent sidelong wrench which snatched the enemy's
neck from his jaws. And, as they came to earth again, Lupus secured
firm hold upon Finn's leg in the same grip that he had obtained
before. The grip was so vice-like and punishing as to flash panic
into Finn's very soul, such as an animal knows when trapped by a
man's device in unyielding steel. It was only by a violent twist of
his neck that he could bring his jaws into action upon Lupus at
all. But panic drove, and the long, immensely powerful neck was
curved sufficiently. His jaws took the wolf-dingo at the back of
the head, and one of his lower canines actually penetrated Lupus's
lower jaw, causing him the most excruciating pain, so that he
emitted a sound more like a hoarse scream than a growl, and
snatched his head back swiftly from so terrible a punishment. That
was the last time in this fight that Finn's legs were in serious
danger. He had learned his lesson, and from that point onward, no
matter what punishment his shoulders might receive, his hanging
jaws, from which the blood dripped now, effectually guarded his
legs.
From this point, too, Lupus seemed to have centred all his desires
upon the Wolfhound's throat; an underhold was what he sought, and
in the pursuit of that he seemed prepared for, and capable of
standing, any amount of punishment. The line of watching dingoes
was still and silent as a line of statuary; it seemed they hardly
drew breath, so intent was their preoccupation. Warrigal, too,
stuck closely to her position, but she was not silent; a low,
continuous snarl issued from her parted jaws, and the updrawn line
of her lips showed white and glistening in the moonlight. She had
been ordered to the rear by her mate, but the waiting dingoes on
the trail below realized that if Finn were to be laid low, there
would still be fighting to be done on that ledge of rock, and
fighting of a deadly sort, at that, from which there would be no
escaping.
In one sense the Wolfhound's great height was against him now,
since it placed Lupus in a more favourable position for securing
the underhold upon which he was intent. But, as against that, it
gave Finn readier access to the hold which in all his fights
hitherto he had made fatal: the hold which a terrier takes upon a
rat. But Lupus was no rat, and Finn had already found more than
once that even his mighty jaws were not powerful enough to give
killing pressure through all the mass of harsh bristles and thick
rolling skin and flesh which protected Lupus's spinal cord at the
neck. Three times during the later stages of the fight Lupus
managed to ward off attack with a lightning stroke of one
fore-foot, the claws of which scored deep into Finn's muzzle and
neck, in one case opening a lesser vein, and sending the red blood
rushing over his iron-grey coat. It seemed the long claws of the
wolf-dingo were almost more deadly than his snapping jaws.
The flow of his own blood seemed to madden Finn, and he made a
plunge for his enemy's neck. Lupus sat erect, and, like a boxer, or
a big bear, warded off the plunge with a violent, sweeping blow of
his right paw. There was a quick flash of bloody, foam-flecked
fangs, and the deadly paw was crushed between Finn's jaws. The pain
of the crushing drew a screeching howl from Lupus, and in that same
instant a powerful upward twist of Finn's neck threw him fairly on
his back, snarling despairingly. One could not measure the fraction
of time which elapsed between Finn's release of the crushed foot
and his seizure of the throat--the deadly underhold. The
wolf-dingo's bristles were thin there, and the skin comparatively
soft. The fight was for life, and it was the whole of the Wolfhound's
great strength that he put into his grip. Lupus's entire frame,
every inch of it, writhed and twisted convulsively, like the body
of a huge cat in torment. Finn's fangs sank half an inch deeper.
The wolf-dingo's claws tore impotently at space, and his body
squirmed almost into a ball. Finn's fangs sank half an inch deeper,
and hot blood gushed between them. Lupus's great body hunched
itself into an almost erect position from the shoulder-blades; he
was standing on his shoulders. Then, as in a convulsion, one of his
hind-legs was lowered in order that it might saw upward, scoring
three deep furrows down the side of the Wolfhound's neck. Finn's
fangs met in the red centre of his enemy's throat. There was a
faint grunt, a final spasm of muscular activity, and then Finn drew
back, and shook his dripping muzzle in the air. The fierce lord of
Mount Desolation had entered upon the long sleep; his lordship was
ended.
Finn sank back upon his haunches, gasping, with a length of
scarlet, foam-streaked tongue dangling from one side of his jaws.
The watching line of dingoes advanced two paces. Warrigal, stepping
forward to her mate's side, snarled warningly. But Finn pushed her
gently with his lacerated muzzle, and, turning then to the watchful
dingoes below, he emitted a little whinnying sound which said
plainly: "You are welcome here!" Acting upon this, Black-tip moved
slowly, deferentially forward, and climbed the flat ledge of rock,
his bushy tail respectfully curled between his legs. Long and
thoroughly he sniffed at the dead body of the terrible Lupus, and
then he looked round at his still waiting companions, and whined as
he walked back toward them. In twos and threes the dingoes followed
Black-tip's lead, and climbed the flat rock to sniff their dead
tyrant, and satisfy themselves that he had indeed entered upon the
long sleep. And the gesture in Finn's direction, with which they
turned away from the rock, was as near to being a salutation, an
obeisance, as anything that mortal dingo has ever achieved. And
when the last of the band, reinforced now by half a dozen others
who had been hastily summoned from their hunting near by, had paid
his visit of inspection, Finn did a curious thing, which probably
no dingo would ever have done. He moved slowly forward on his
aching limbs, gripped the dead body firmly by the neck, and heaved
it down from the flat rock to the trail below. Then he barked
aloud, a message which said plainly--
"Here is your old lord and tyrant! Take him away, and leave me
now!"
Black-tip and half a dozen of his comrades seized upon the carcase
of the tyrant and dragged it away down the trail. I cannot say what
was done with the remains of Lupus, the terrible son of Tasman; but
Finn and Warrigal saw them no more, and for three days after that
night of the slaying of Lupus, the bush-folk saw nothing of the
Wolfhound. They saw Warrigal hunt alone each evening and, doubtless
with thoughts of Finn in their minds, they respected her trail, and
sought no speech of her, tempting though the sight of the Mount
Desolation belle was to the young bucks of the pack. These young
bloods, by the way, began to mutter now of the desirability of
banding together to beard old Tasman in his den, and rid themselves
of the shadow and tradition of tyranny, as well as its actuality.
But the counsel of the elders strongly favoured delay. "Let us wait
and see what the Great One will do when he is healed of his
wounds," was what they thought, and, after their own fashion, said
to the ambitious youngsters.
[Illustration]